I follow his gaze and land on the small yellow sign lit up and blinking, “Fortune Teller.” The bright sign and beaded entrance are both stereotypical and ominous, making me give JP an immediate, “Yes.”
He stops abruptly. “Really?”
“Yes,” I say, letting out a deep laugh. “Listen, neither of us need to waste our time if”—I squint to read the sign—“Lady Maribel doesn’t think we should be together.”
He grips my hand a little tighter, his tongue gliding along the inside of his cheek as he ponders. Then, finally, he says. “Let’s do it.”
My heel wobbles slightly on the brick road and I grip his bicep to steady me. “Sorry.”
“You good?” he asks, taking my hand in his. I like the feel of his hand in mine, but the way it makes butterflies take flight in my stomach gives me pause.
“I am,” I answer quickly, pretending hand-holding isn’t about to turn me into a puddle on the gritty Pike Place pavement. “Hey, is this the fortune teller with the eggs?”
“The what?”
“Eggs,” I say evenly. “They’re in a vending machine.”
“I hope so,” he responds with a smile that makes me want to sink my teeth in his dimple.
We part the beaded entrance, and the scent of incense immediately hits my nose. An orange game machine with a plastic chicken on a metal rod behind the glass sits in the corner, lit with rainbow LED lights. It doesn’t fit the ambiance, nor does the nineties hip-hop playing quietly in the background. JP and I immediately turn to each other and start mouthing the lyrics;our full-on millennial-stank faces making an appearance. His enthusiasm and knowledge of the entire verse makes me snort out a laugh and then I slap a hand over my mouth because, while the hip-hop music is Lady Maribel’s choice, it doesn’t quite feel like the type of establishment to let loose.
I spin away from JP to get a hold of my laughter and inadvertently knock a blue and white urn-shaped vase off a table. JP darts forward, fumbling the vase in his hands but gaining a steady grip just before it falls to the floor and shatters.
I exhale deeply, and he smiles at me, no doubt proud of himself. We both try to contain our laughter.
“Good thing you caught that, or I’d be cleaning up my Uncle Lester’s ashes off the floor.”
With our mouths wide open, we both immediately turn to the woman who just entered the front end of the shop from behind the maroon velvet curtain. She’s wearing a gold caftan, and more or less resembles Betty White.
“I’m sorry. I—” I begin, but she waves me off with a smirk.
“I’m joking. I got it at a flea market,” she says, moving toward the front desk littered with crystals and boxes of incense.
“Are you guys ready?” she asks without asking how she can help us. JP and I freeze for a moment before she adds, “Sit down. I know what you’re here for. You can get your eggs after.”
A chuckle rumbles from my chest and JP says, “You’re good, Maribel.”
She winks, adjusting in her green velvet chair while we sit in the ones across the table. She clicks on the crystal ball in the center of the round table, and I snort. She glares at me over her reading glasses. “Sorry,” I mutter. I don’t want to be disrespectful but I truly am just here for fun.
“Forty dollars,” she says, her tone still rough. The sound of the chair grating against the wood floors makes me wince.
JP slaps two twenties on the table.
“Palms out,” she demands, and we both rest our hands palm up on the table. She takes each one, running her weathered fingertips along the lines and grooves, then dropping our hands on the table abruptly enough to make a loud thud. “Hmm,” she says, and JP and I flash a look at each other while she waves her hand over the crystal ball.
Nothing happens. It doesn’t even light up.
Then to me, she says, “Wait. Let me see your left hand again.”
I offer her my hand, palm up. She stares at it and again says, “Hmm.”
“I know. I’m a complicated person,” I remark, and JP’s lips twist as he restrains a smile.
Maribel’s eyes dart to mine. She holds eye contact so intensely that she reminds me of my freshman US history teacher, Ms. Heinrich, who has remained one of the most intimidating women I’ve ever met.
Until Maribel. She may be 4’11” and less than 100 pounds, but her presence is quite daunting.
“You can say whatever. Don’t go easy on me. I don’t really believe in this stuff anyway,” I comment, but kind of regret it.
